


i knew you in this dark.

by milesmalpractice



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, because that's what this is about, idiot boys, who remembers the London student riots at the end of 2010?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesmalpractice/pseuds/milesmalpractice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are my favourite," he tells Combeferre solemnly, wide-eyed, and a pleased smile plays across the man’s face.</p>
<p>"I’d better be," is all he says, turning back to Enjolras, and if there’s an undercurrent of something else there, Courfeyrac pretends he doesn’t catch it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i knew you in this dark.

**Author's Note:**

> SO. I've been knocking around in the fandom for a fair few years, and this is my first proper contribution in terms of fic. This is the first part of something which will potentially have more to follow, depending if, you know, people are actually interested. If you want more information on the student protests that happened at the end of 2010 (and how disgustingly they were handled by the police) then there's plenty on information if you trawl back through the Guardian site. Enjoy!

"Get some rest," Enjolras had told him, clasping his shoulder with one hand, “we need everybody operating at their best tomorrow," and Courfeyrac had tried, god, he had tried. But it was no use, adrenaline churning his stomach, fingers itching for a cigarette, then something more dangerous. He dresses quickly, fingers slipping deftly over shirt buttons, and the night air is cool and welcome, for all it is nearing mid-November he cannot shake the flushed feeling that creeps along the back of his neck. 

Courfeyrac hates waiting.

He heads for Bankside, aims to spend his evening in one of the trendy bars frequented by hoards of _dickhead bankers_ (even now he can hear those words drawn out in Bahorel’s scathing drawl, and he laughs), hoping for a boost for tomorrow; a reminder of the privileged fuckwits he fled from when he moved to london, to reiterate why tomorrow is important. Courfeyrac doesn’t actively look for fights, but he wouldn’t object to finding himself in a brawl with one of those comfortable Wimbledon corporate types in a desperately expensive yet cripplingly unfashionable suit. But when he’s halfway there he changes his mind, hops on the night bus and ends up in Leytonstone, hammering on Feuilly’s door.

"Your hallway stinks of piss," he informs him when Feuilly eventually comes to the door, barefoot in worn trackpants and a baggy shirt that Courfeyrac is at least eighty five percent sure he has seen on both Bahorel and Jehan at different points in time. Feuilly laughs, olive skin streaked with paint, eyes bright in the dark of the corridor, and steps aside to let him in. The flat is small, his room even smaller, littered with easels and canvasses. When Courfeyrac opens his mouth to comment on a painting, his fingers tracing the raised lines of oil pants, Feuilly shushes him with one finger, whispering in his lilting accented english that his flatmates are sleeping, and they’re terrible people at the best of times, so please, does he mind not being overly exuberant? To which Courfeyrac grins, shrugs, and leans in to kiss him.

The night continues in a similar fashion. They’re both restless, and matters don’t progress further than kissing, but there’s something comforting about laying with his head on Feuilly’s chest, one ear pressed to his sternum, steady breathing soothing him as he tangles his fingers in dark curls to keep him grounded. They speak about tomorrow, the protest, the culmination of months of planning, weeks of waiting. Grand, heroic, daring moves, revolutionary acts, feverishly excited words whispered into collarbones and bitten off into open mouthed kisses. At one stage Feuilly reaches across for his acrylics, and Courfeyrac lies very still (a feat in itself, for he is always wriggling, has been told that even in sleep he is rarely motionless), heat thrumming under his skin which quivers beneath the lick of the paintbrush. After what feels like years but is at most twenty minutes, Feuilly rocks back on his heels, looking pleased with himself, and takes a photo of his efforts on Courfeyrac’s iPhone to show him for lack of a mirror. From just below his earlobe, stretching down to his jawbone and halfway down his neck is a phoenix in golds and crimsons and deep bronze. He flexes his neck and can feel his skin shift beneath the paint. “She will accompany us tomorrow," he whispers. Feuilly raises his eyebrows. “A revolutionary phoenix," and he is grinning and so is Feuilly, who flicks him in the temple with his thumb and forefinger and calls him a dickhead before pulling him in by his collar for a bruising kiss. Courfeyrac is very okay with this turn of events.

He must have fallen asleep, because suddenly something heavy hits him in the face, and then again, and he’s startling awake, pushing himself up onto his elbows to blink up at Feuilly, who is stood in front of the bed grinning. “Shoes," he says, and points at his chest. ever obedient, Courfeyrac looks down and oh, that’s what was hitting him in the face, his shoes, and that wasn’t very nice of Feuilly. He tells him as much, and Feuilly laughs, flipping him off as he wriggles into his drainpipes. Because he’s still mostly asleep and can’t think of anything else to do, he pulls his shoes on and in a moment of panic, raises his hand to brush cautious fingers over where Feuilly’s paintbrush had touched only hours before. The artist sees this, and stops fiddling with his cardigan for long enough to catch Courfeyrac’s wrist in one hand. “It’s still there, don’t worry." Courfeyrac sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and watches him, dewy eyed and lethargic, the world still fuzzy from sleep.

"She’s a she, not an it," is all he manages, and Feuilly is rolling his eyes and dragging him out the door and down the sagging fire escape, but not before pressing a firm, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. It’s time.

They end up having to swap lines at Tottenham Court Road, and by the time they get to Embankment they’re horrendously late, with no time for coffee, much to Courfeyrac’s chagrin. There’s already a substantial crowd, more than Courfeyrac expected, and something behind his ribcage swells, making him grin breathlessly, reaching for Feuilly’s hand. The other man entwines their fingers together roughly, and Courfeyrac feels calloused fingers flexing against his palm, but then the artist is gone, long legs darting through the crowd as he launches himself onto Bahorel’s back, arms looping around his neck. Even over the din of distressed students and academics, it’s easy to hear the booming laugh in reaction.

There’s a makeshift sort of podium at the forefront of the crowd, and as Courfeyrac starts to push towards it he spots Enjolras on the steps, iridescent as ever in the grey morning light, jaw tight and hands gesturing as he speaks to someone holding a clipboard. He wants to wave, but thinks it probably wouldn’t be appreciated at this point in time. Instead, he winds his way around the side of the podium to where Combeferre is stood, watching (Courfeyrac suspects in case Enjolras is of need of back-up, or more likely, reining in), and steps up behind him, resting his chin on his shoulder. The man doesn’t even flinch.

"Good morning," and Courfeyrac can hear the smile in his voice as he noses the man’s ear in response. “Did you oversleep?"

"Mm, got the train in with Feuilly." He’s watching Enjolras too, now - it’s hard not to, it always has been. His blazer (fitted, mahogany patches at the elbows, courfeyrac definitely approves) is the same colour as the crimson that stains the plumage of his phoenix. As if on cue, Combeferre turns to face him, and his eyes fall to the line of his jaw.

"That’s new," he comments mildly, but the press of his fingertips to the cracked paint is firm, and Courfeyrac sucks in a sharp breath from between his teeth. 

"Courtesy of our starving artist," and his grin is too quick, all nervous energy, a flash of his teeth and lips pulled too wide. The fingers are still pressed to his jaw and Combeferre makes a small noise at the back of his throat. Courfeyrac feels it through the pads of his fingers and his eyes close just for a moment. When he opens them, the world has righted itself, Combeferre is watching him with his usual steady gaze and Enjolras is still yelling at the guy with the clipboard.

"Fitting," is all Combeferre says of Feuilly’s creation, and Courfeyrac knows he must look truly awful because the med student is pushing his disposable coffee cup into his hands, with a gentle grin. His hands close around it and breathe it in and _fuck,_ it’s good, that first taste. He actually groans aloud, and then is grateful for the noise of the crowd, for the egocentric students surrounding them who don’t give a shit if there’s a sleep deprived heathen making uncontrolled non-verbal responses to caffeine in their midst. 

"You are my favourite," he tells Combeferre solemnly, wide-eyed, and a pleased smile plays across the man’s face.

"I’d better be," is all he says, turning back to Enjolras, and if there’s an undercurrent of something else there, Courfeyrac pretends he doesn’t catch it.

*

Courfeyrac has seen enough of these to recognise turning points, moments where the protest teeters on the edge of disintegrating into sheer chaos. They've been kettled in for hours, cold November air settling bone-deep as he shivers in his shirtsleeves (he really didn't think that one through). The skin covered by his phoenix is cracked and pinched, and after six hours of being barricaded in by the police and their fucking riot vans, he's perhaps not feeling as enthusiastic about it all as he was that morning. But Enjolras is as fiery as ever, apparently immune to the cold, alternating between arguing with the police and interacting with the crowd. Someone has started a fire with cardboard salvaged from a bin, and from the spot where he's sat in the gutter, knees pulled to his chest, he can see Jehan's gleeful face as he warms his hands over the flames. 

The tension has been growing steadily, a careful yet unbridled frustration encompassing the crowd, and then Enjolras curls his lip and hurls something at one of the officers - Courfeyrac is too far away to hear but he sees the hard line of his jaw, those unyielding shoulders, and knows the tone instantly - and one of the officers is brandishing his baton, there's a scuffle, someone goes down, and Enjolras is flinging himself over the line of shields, crowd surging behind him. It seems to happen in slow motion, and Courfeyrac clambers to his feet, chilled bones forgotten as he searches out his friends in the crowd, but can only see Enjolras, indignant and brave and terrible, bruise already blossoming on his right temple. He can't not follow. 

Time passes, and there are sirens, and horses, and someone torches a police car, and there are too many bodies on the ground. There's a shout from somewhere to his right, _fucking pepper spray_ , a cry of warning, and Courfeyrac is vaguely aware of the fact that he is screaming himself hoarse at officers who have covered their identification numbers to brandish weapons in the riot. There's blood on his fingers and he's not sure whose it is, his or someone else's, and it's too easy to lose himself in it all. It's not until a hand closes around his wrist that he stops, halfway though a hoarse _bloody cunting cowards_ , because the hand is cool and smooth and pressing firmly against his pulse and he could recognise that touch anywhere, even when it seems hell itself has opened up in Westminster. Combeferre has lost his glasses, his face is pale and there is blood on the collar of his shirt. "We need to go," sees the words rather than hearing them, "follow me," and he does, because he could never imagine doing anything else. 

"It got to the point of being counter-productive," the man tells him as they stagger up High Holborn, the streets deserted from fear of the nearby rioting. At first they had run, heartbeat roaring in his ears, but once they were a safe distance they had slowed, sucking in sharp breaths of cold night air, hands ingrained with dirt and sweat and blood tangled together. The need for physical reassurance of one another was paramount, minds still in a state of aggression. "I was not far from Bahorel, and so I alerted him to that fact. He agreed, after some needling, and we managed to get hold of Joly and Feuilly as well. We then split up to find the rest of you. You were my charge," his words punctuated with a sharp squeeze of his hand, followed by a downward twist of his mouth. "Bahorel went after Enjolras. I do not envy him in that." Courfeyrac opens his mouth to reply, but his throat is like sandpaper, and so grasps his hand tighter instead, threading their grimy fingers together. Something in Combeferre's face softens, and Courfeyrac knows he has been understood. 

Montague Place is deserted just like the rest of Holborn, and he finds himself leaning heavily against Combeferre as the med student fumbles for his keys. The ground floor flat is tiny, two rooms with a washroom wedged in the middle, books stacked on every available surface and patchwork quilts that Courfeyrac remembers from lazy teenage summers spent at Combeferre's parents house draped over both sofa and windowseat. It's dark, the main room cast in pale shadows from the light of the moon filtered through high windows, and Combeferre doesn't bother to stop to turn on any lights, forcibly sitting Courfeyrac down on the sofa with an ordered "stay," then disappearing to the washroom. 

"You're lucky I'm so fond of you," Courfeyrac calls from where he has obediently sat, but his words are slurred with exhaustion, "you're one of the few men I'd take orders from." There's no answer. When Combeferre returns, Courfeyrac has kicked his shoes off and draped one of the blankets around his shoulders, grins up at the man with cracked bloody lips. "I feel like a king." Combeferre huffs out a reluctant laugh, the corners of his mouth quirking momentarily before his face regains that pinched, serious look that worries Courfeyrac so much. 

"Shirt off," he says quietly, and it's indicative of how well Courfeyrac knows his friend that he doesn't blurt out the innuendo lurking at the tip of his tongue, knows now is not the time for jokes, not when Combeferre's shoulders are tight and mouth unforgiving. The buttons prove a difficult task for tired, bruised fingers, and when it's dropped in a tangle of sleeves at the foot of the sofa, Combeferre's frown deepens. His ribs are mottled purple and blue, stretching from the edge of his sternum, right around to the base of his ribs against his back. Higher up, along the sharp line of his shoulder, there's another bruise, the clear outline of a baton blow cast in violet against tanned skin. 

"Shit," his brain feels sluggish and words stupid, too obvious, "I didn't think it was so bad." He feels it now, the throbbing of his side coming into focus as he stares at the bruises. Combeferre is yet to speak, but his expression is like thunder, and Courfeyrac forgets how dangerous the med student can be - despite his placid demeanour and wry turns of phrase the man is just as dangerous, if not more so, than Enjolras, who is all fire but essentially predictable. He thinks of this, and the man's penchant for artillery, and that possessive edge to the looks that Courfeyrac knows are directed at him but he pretends not to see. He thinks of all these things as Combeferre presses two fingers to the base of his rib cage, pads brushing lightly along the discolouration, the same fingers that curled around his wrists and pulled him to safety less than an hour ago, and shivers as something sharp and separate but not unrelated to the pain starts to unfurl at the base of his stomach. Unthinking, he sucks in a breath, as careful fingers trip along the hollows of his ribs. "Combeferre," he croaks, quiet rasp too loud in the overwhelming silence they've found themselves in, but the man doesn't look up. Combeferre's face is dark, almost incredulous, lips parted and eyes trained to bruised flesh, and Courfeyrac is desperate to understand what that expression means but at the same time terrified of acknowledging whatever it is that hangs in the space between them. "Leo," reaching out to curl one hand around the wrist that is pressed flush against tainted skin, and this time those cool green eyes meet his. Neither one speaks, the moment feels too careful and delicate for Courfeyrac to pollute it with thoughtless ungainly speech, and so they sit in silence, Combeferre's pulse drumming out against his fingers. 

Only it's too much, the silence pressing in around them, roaring in his ears after his day spent in the deafening maelstrom of the riot, skin prickling and _fuck_ , his side hurts, but if Combeferre would just keep looking at him like that, he knows he could put up with the ache in his side for the rest of his days. It's this thought that spurs him on, surging forward bare-chested and wild-eyed to cradle the base of his skull in one hand, pulling him in to press their mouths together. It takes a moment to adjust, Combeferre tries to say something, makes a startled noise and twitches away like a bird about to take flight but Courfeyrac holds him in place, determinedly sucking at his bottom lip. The taste of blood is overwhelming when he licks into his mouth, though he's not sure whose blood, and he can pinpoint the exact moment the tang of iron hits Combeferre's tongue because a strangled noise is being torn from the other man's throat and there are hands - those calm, controlled, well-kept hands that keep peace during heated arguments at the Musain, capable and soothing when tending to Bahorel's endless amount of swollen jaws and black eyes or Bossuet's scraped knees - tangling in his hair, tugging hard and demanding at his inky curls. The wanton moan that breaks from his lips should probably be embarrassing but Courfeyrac is so far beyond that, when Combeferre is breathing raggedly into furious kisses and dragging him closer with both hands, until Courfeyrac has no other choice but to settle in his lap. Legs splayed, thighs straddling insistent hips, he is deliberately soft and pliant where Combeferre is hard and unyielding beneath him, battered knuckles slipping up where the man's shirt has rucked up around his middle to brush along the taut skin of his stomach. There's something unidentifiable in that movement that causes Combeferre to snap, one hand still fisted in Courfeyrac's curls and the other cradling his hip, fingers digging in white hot against bare skin, and as Courfeyrac experimentally shifts in his lap, Combeferre breaks off to keen sharply, noise bitten off into Courfeyrac's jawbone, and impatiently rolls his hips up in one sudden movement that sends Courfeyrac throwing his head back, stars exploding behind his eyelids. 

Somewhere, a phone is ringing. At first, Courfeyrac is inclined to ignore it, but in the fog of his brain that has cancelled out everything save the slow drag of Combeferre's thumb over the fly of his trousers, he manages to remember what passed earlier in the day, and that all things considered, now is not the time to be ignoring a ringing phone. "Combe _ferre_ ," he tries, though it comes out as more of a whine, hips unconsciously arching into those careful fingers, but the man does little else than press an open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, humming low in his throat as flicks open the top button of Courfeyrac's trousers. "Fuck," he manages, and oh, this is _so_ not fair, he is going to fucking slaughter whoever it is ringing, but they really can't afford to-- 

"Leo," pleading, he catches one hand in the man's shirt to steady him, and almost loses all resolve as Combeferre stops and stares up at him with wild, unfocussed eyes, lips red and bitten raw, his hand still resting at the bulge in Courfeyrac's trousers. "Your-- your phone," and leans back to grab it off the table, trembling hand closing around it and pressing it into Combeferre's chest. He stares at Courfeyrac a moment longer, and then at the phone, as if he has literally no idea what to do with any of this information, before a shutter comes down over his face, that intense, vulnerable expression is gone, and Combeferre is thumbing at his phone and pressing it to his ear. 

"Hello?" His voice is rough from the headiness of kisses and Courfeyrac wants to drown himself in it. "Bahorel? Are you both alright?" The sudden awkwardness between them is palpable, Combeferre's eyes skittering away from his as he speaks calmly and precisely into the mouthpiece with none of the unrestrained fervour of moments before. The room feels cooler now, and Courfeyrac shivers, wrapping his arms around his bruised middle as he shifts out of the man's lap, bare shoulders goose pimpled in the chill. There's clean laundry in the basket by the sink, waiting to be folded, and rather than attempt to make do with his own bloody tattered shirt, he pulls an old knitted jumper from the pile and folds himself into it, soft wool settling into the swollen dips of his ribcage.  

"Keep him there," Combeferre is instructing, still sat on the sofa, and Courfeyrac watches him in silence from the kitchenette. He wants to go to him, tear the phone from his hands and kiss that worried line of a mouth into something more pleasing, rake bruised fingertips down his back and across his thighs until he draws that desperate keen from him once more. But the moment is gone, and so he doesn't, instead rifling in the top cabinet where he knows Combeferre keeps emergency cigarettes and a lighter, and lets himself out into the tiny courtyard.  

That's where Combeferre finds him, half an hour later, sat with his back against crumbling red brick, cigarette butts littering the paving stones around him. His face is ashen in the moonlight, tipped up to the sky, and he's aware that Combeferre is watching him for several long moments before either of them speaks. 

"That was Bahorel," and Courfeyrac turns to look at him, a wisp of smoke coiling from between parted lips which still sting from the fury of kisses. He's changed from dust-laden shirt and trousers to pyjama bottoms and an old cotton t-shirt that Courfeyrac remembers from school, thin fabric hanging off the rise of his clavicle. "He managed to grab Enjolras and get him out of there before the reinforcements arrived and started making arrests." 

"I bet Enjolras was happy about that," Courfeyrac interjects wryly, grinding his cigarette into a patch of moss, and Combeferre manages an exhausted smile.

"I expect we'll get a talking to tomorrow, but it was the right thing to do. He will see that, in time." There's a beat, in which Courfeyrac lights another cigarette, and Combeferre watches him. "Everyone else got away in time, mostly unharmed. Bossuet dislocated his shoulder, but Joly took care of it. Apart from that, just the usual scrapes and bruises - to be expected, really. We're meeting tomorrow evening for a debriefing."  

"Okay," because he doesn't know what else to say, and pushes himself to his feet, wincing as he jolts his side. Immediately, Combeferre is next to him, concern replacing exhaustion, hand fitted to the small of his back. 

"Are you alright?" The low timbre of his voice is enough to have Courfeyrac biting down hard on his lip to stop himself from fisting a hand in his shirt and dragging him closer. He shrugs, sucking in a drag of his cigarette. 

"I'll live." The casual nonchalance of his response seems to remind Combeferre of their predicament, because he snatches his hand away like he's been burned. Without his glasses, in the shadows of the courtyard, he looks five years younger. When he speaks again, his voice is careful, as if he's planned every intonation.  

"There is an icepack by the sink in the kitchen that I have left out for you. You need to ice your ribs. I've changed the sheets on my bed, you can sleep there. I'll take the sofa," but Courfeyrac is already frowning, cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger as his lip curls in a scowl. 

"What the fuck, Combeferre, you're dead on your feet. We'll share, it's fine," and it's fucking ridiculous, really, because they've been sharing beds since they were twelve, and it had never been an issue before now. But then, Combeferre had never pulled him into his lap and bitten kisses into his neck before now.  

"I'll be fine on the sofa," Combeferre repeats, refusing to make eye contact.

"For fuck's sake, Leo, just--."  

" _Courfeyrac_ ," stopping him mid-sentence, the intense vulnerability in that one word rendering him speechless. Combeferre cords a trembling hand through his hair, and guilt courses through him so suddenly he can taste it on the roof of his mouth. "I can't--."  

"Alright," he's murmuring, without even knowing what he's agreeing to, but fuck, if it stops Combeferre from looking like he's about to break right there in the doorway, he'll promise him anything. His hands come up instinctively to soothe him, to settle against those rigid shoulders, but he catches himself halfway. The movement does not go unnoticed, Combeferre's eyes momentarily fix on his hands before he tears them away, a muted noise of distress barely audible from behind the straight line of his mouth. "Alright," Courfeyrac repeats, "I'll just…?" Motions to his cigarette, burnt down almost to the filter. Combeferre nods, turns to leave and then stops. For a long moment, Courfeyrac thinks he's going to say something about what has passed between them, his expression a desperate struggle between longing and controlled calm. 

"Remember to ice your ribs," is all he says, and then he's gone. Courfeyrac sucks bitterly at the dregs of his cigarette, and presses the heel of his palm into his eyes in an effort to quell the sudden urge to cry. 


End file.
